


night watch

by ChimericalSerenity



Category: A Way Out (Video Game)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 17:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14675595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimericalSerenity/pseuds/ChimericalSerenity
Summary: Vincent regrets many things, this included.





	night watch

**Author's Note:**

> The feels caught me. Enjoy! :)

“Aw hell, we’ve officially hit rock bottom,” Leo mutters, rolling his ankles to lessen the dull, throbbing cramps in his soles.

 

“Leave the pessimism to me,” Vincent says, unwitting amusement coloring the timbre of his tone.

 

“You, a pessimist? Would never’ve guessed, man.”

 

He hates to admit it, but it tugs his lips into a reluctant grin.

 

The excitement from their chase fades, and their heartbeats, breaths settle in tandem. Without the thudding echo of a heartbeat in his ears and the adrenaline coursing through dilated veins, Vincent’s brain stutters online.

 

He’s a little shocked at how well their quips flow; no doubt, sharing a few near-death experiences helped loosen him up. That was awfully telling, actually. The accusations of being a ‘suicidal adrenaline junkie’, quote Carol, might’ve hit a bit too close to home. In another situation, he might’ve found it amusing; not now, though. He feels bone-deep tired.

 

Despite the nature of his job, the clarity that ekes into his mind with the help of a moment of silence shines a brutal light on his lacking professionalism. He doesn’t know how to feel about getting so close to a known felon. He’s starting to actually _like_ the guy, goddamn it.

 

A mistake, he vows. Despite the humorous lip, a criminal was a criminal.

 

He remembers Andy, valedictorian smile, rugby calves and likable, eccentric air. Then, drenched with crimson, body curled in a sharp rictus as his body cooled on concrete. Carol, curly locks framing her delicate features, belly swollen and tender in the early trimester of their honeymoon-cum-pregnancy. It washes perspective over the 'think later, do now' attitude he's been forced to maintain on the run.

 

He's ashamed that he managed to forget, even if it was just for a moment. The familiar anger is sharp, and he welcomes it.

 

The emotions make him antsy. Leo, as irritatingly perceptive as he is, notices, but knows not to pry. Leo can make his own assumptions; after all, harboring some residual anxiety over their predicament isn't wholly unreasonable. 

 

It’s an awkward 'in-between' time of day. Sun yet to fully dip along the horizon, it leaves an awkward expanse of time to spare between them. While Leo seems content to do nothing but indulge in the scenery and take in the peaceful air, Vincent’s hands are itching for something to do.

 

Picking up the knife, he hacks a chunk of wood from the stump. Turning the chalky wood in his callused palms, he etches a crude design into it, some form of four-legged animal. He examines it, tilting it to regard his first woodwork. Not bad, but it really could be better. By a huge margin.

 

He discards it into the grass, starts over.

 

Time passes, the sky dims. Before the ashy flickers of heat can lead them into more trouble, Leo takes the decisive measure to stamp out the embers, until nothing but ash and dry splinters remain.

 

“Mother Nature ain’t gonna get any kinder,” Leo provides, gesturing to the wooden platform, “take first rest. I’ll wake you in four.”

 

Vincent nods.

 

“Do we need to hang anything up, y’think?” Leo jerks a nod, obviously dubious at the set up. “Doesn’t seem too warm in there.”

 

“Why, you worried that your toes are gonna get cold?” _Vincent_ , _for god’s sake, stop_. “Contrary to popular belief, convection doesn’t lose you much heat. Most of it's lost through the ground.” He shrugs, patting the structure for emphasis as he sits, “we’ll be fine.”

 

A pause, “alright, whatever.”

 

Vincent stretches, lies down. The wood is pleasantly warm in comparison to the cool night air, and despite the unfamiliar hardness against his back, exhaustion consumes him.

 

Until he’s awoken by familiar sounds, that is.

 

“Man, seriously?” He groans exasperatedly, throwing a hand up to rub at his eyes, “you’re a simple guy, huh.”

 

“Hey, you give a guy a couple hours of solitude, what’s he gonna do?” Leo’s voice is unrepentant, he hasn’t even stopped, goddamn. _Prison probably does that to a guy._

 

“So this is your definition of keeping a lookout?” Vincent snaps, “getting distracted so that some cop can come and catch you with hands down your pants like an idiot?”

 

 “I can multitask,” Leo says, sounding genuinely offended. “Look, can you let me get on with it? Sorry to break it to ya, pal, but your voice isn’t really doing it for me.”

 

Vincent can’t find a decent retort to that and opts for silence. But…but it’s fucking awkward, hearing Leo’s slick sounds and unsteady inhales. The forest is too quiet. He shifts uncomfortably, wood creaking tellingly as he tosses and turns.

 

Leo pauses, after a while. He sounds irritated, voice clearer than before, “you’re stiff as a fucking board. I can hear you thinking from all the way here. Just go back to sleep.”

 

“I feel like a fucking voyeur, alright?” Vincent hisses. Any decent person would be uncomfortable in the situation; note, decent. Obviously, Leo didn’t fall in that category. “Can you bring that somewhere else?!”

 

“I think the banker needs to loosen up,” Leo snickers. He’s obviously not in the mood to bring anything elsewhere.

 

Vincent falls silent. There’s something weird about it, but it’s also oddly, arousing. He’s not attracted to Leo, not in the slightest, but it’s an easy reminder of his own neglect. The sharp, driven lust of Leo’s scent – he can fucking _smell_ him, oh God – has him throbbing sympathetically. He swallows, breathes through his mouth to silence the noise of his shortened breaths.

 

He’s paralyzed with indecision. Despite the mortification and the awareness of how very _wrong_ it is, a part of him deliberates whether Leo’d know if he inched his fingers down to adjust himself in his pants.

 

For a second, he thinks he’s gotten away with it, but Leo laughs.

 

He fucking laughs.

 

Vincent’s eyes unwittingly shoot towards Leo: big mistake. He sees the pumping outline of his fist, legs tensing as he pushes up in small thrusts. It’s pitch dark, thankfully; he’s very fucking sure that he doesn’t want to see Leo’s face any more than Leo does his.

 

“Look, get it over with. Nothing I’ve never heard before. Besides, what if we get shot down tomorrow? Gotta take the chances as they come.”

 

Leo stops. Despite Vincent’s furious mortification, he groans, says, “don’t you dare say it.”

 

He sounds viciously amused at Vincent’s expense, “no pun intended.”

 

That pulls a real laugh out of him. Oh, he went there.

 

He deliberates for another second. He’s crazy, for considering, for allowing things to fall like dominos, one after the other.

 

The buzzing anticipation, the knowledge of someone listening in… whilst he's partaking in the act of self-pleasure feels entirely too arousing. He wraps a shaky hand around his semi, tugs, and hisses, sharp through his teeth, at the flicker of heat that pulses in his gut.

 

Slowly, he builds up a momentum. His mind forgoes the misfortunate implications of their situation. As far he’s concerned, they’re self-indulgent, hot-blooded males. After days undercover, being treated like shit at the bottom of a barrel, shot at by his co-workers and having to jump across a canyon…well, he had the right to do whatever the fuck he wants to.

 

A little more than halfway along to full, he spits into his palm. Taking hold of the swollen, flushed tip, he trembles as the pleasure hazes his mind and curls his toes. Callused fingers rub insistently, twisting pressure along the ridge. It's a little harder to stay completely silent now. When he accidentally times an inhale with a particularly vicious upstroke that rubs him _just right_ , it draws a shaky sound out of his throat.

It's not like Vincent's ashamed of himself. Circumcision has been a long-running part of his family culture and anyone who doesn't understand that is intolerant shit, but he finds himself wondering if Leo's connected the dots. He's not concerned of what he thinks, only if he's figured it out, with the spitting and all. His eyes are still shut, and there's safety in that ostrich mentality. It seems trivial; he's jerking off in front of the guy, what does it matter that he knows that he's circumcised?

 

But his mind lingers. What if? What if Leo's looking at him. He shivers.

 

He's so preoccupied once he gets going that he almost forgets that Leo's there. Skin prickling and hypersensitive, when his shin brushes against heated flesh, he isn’t quite able to reign his inhale of surprise.

 

Eyes flicker open, a reactionary accident. Vincent finds luminous, predatory eyes amongst the darkness, fixed appreciatively upon him. Leo has sidled along the bench towards him, thigh barely an inch away from him. It's nice. Intimate, kind of. He feels the ghostly prickle of leg hair, brushing against him.

 

No words are exchanged, but their actions grow frantic. Finally breaking the impasse, Leo is the first to tense, grunt and tilt his head back. Vincent studies the corded muscle, watches it as the moonlight catches the contours. His mind is blank. He only feels a vague wanting, to reach for that same peak, and _oh_ – he’s there, pulsing, warmth coating his knuckles.

 

For once, Vincent doesn’t feel angry, or conflicted, or guilty, only the bone-deep satisfaction of a good orgasm. Extricating himself, he grimaces, twists his body to splay a wet hand along the dirt, dragging it along the edge of the planks.

 

“You animal,” Leo says, the words slow, satisfied. It sends a mortifying twitch through his groin.

 

Yeah, he’s not going to think about that too much.

  

He hasn’t the brain cells to respond, but at least he has the semblance to arduously tuck himself back into his briefs. He offers breathless laughter. Time seems slow, syrupy and unclear.

 

“That good, huh?” Leo snorts, before slamming a palm, thankfully clean…? Vincent doesn’t really want to question that. “Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, man. You’re up.”

 

He climbs up, legs still shaky, _holy shit, how hard did he come?_ , before sitting down on the log, rubbing feeling into his thighs. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve established that you’re horrible.”

 

“Oh, give it a minute. When your brain cells come around, maybe you can give me a better retort.” Leo mumbles. He’s already half-asleep, the fucker.

 

The good mood lasts for approximately two minutes.

 

He washes his hands in the lake, then his face, then vaguely wishes he could physically wash his mind of the past as well, because he sure as hell wants to forget the last ten minutes.

 

_Fucking shit._

 

He's never been great at impulse control.


End file.
